Set in Broken Stone
by eiwaishi
Summary: A series of semi-related, semi-Zombie Alvisscentric oneshots. He must atone for his sins, even if he is tormented by his memories.
1. Despair

Come into life.

Live.

Die.

That was the way life was supposed to be, a clock set into motion. Tick tock, it would go, counting down the days until the device would be devoid of energy, and vanish from the world. Birth. Life. Death.

But he didn't die. No, he would never die. Not since that day.

It had been too late for him. One second, one hour, one day, he would never know. He had always, _always,_ managed to pull through, even by the skin of his teeth, the hair on his head. But not then. Now this was what he was, the scar marking the happiness he had not deserved.

_A zombie._

They had managed to stop Phantom, and _he _had finally ended it, once and for all, but with that little pause, the slightest hesitation, everything went downhill. An inch away from the little keyhole, and he had froze, pain writhing in his insides. He should have ignored it, but no, he stopped, his other hand clutching the shirt over his chest in agony. The searing heat that spread from his heart to his face, wrapping around his fingers in invisible scorches. He could only faintly remember the look on the face of the Knight, shock mixing in the defeat there already was, along with pity and worry. In a last minute attempt to save himself from one more regret, he had grabbed Purific Ave, forcing the ARM into his chest to end the wrath of the tattoo, finalizing his life, in hopes of saving another.

Not that it had helped.

_Lucky_, he thought now, to die into the peace. _And leave me there to suffer._

He had tugged and tugged, unable to remove the ARM from Phantom's chest to plunge into his own, newly formed keyhole. Purific Ave was very rare; the only one of its kind. And there it had been, permanently lodged, an invisible, uncrossable distance between him and the only thing that could end the torture that was sure to come. Even when the others had come rushing in, to tell him the news of their victories, he could only stare blankly, feeling the effects of the tattoo subside into a natural prescence once again. A natural, chilling aura gripping his heart in a forbidding embrace.

If only he had not hesitated. Then Phantom could've saved him.

If only he hadn't. Then he wouldn't be alone now.

Everyone had celebrated, that day. Looks of happiness etched on their, once familiar, faces, as they had partied through the night. He could barely remember it now (how many years had it been?): a pair of muscular arms slung drunkenly over his shoulders, as it would a son; a flittering prescence nuzzling his cheek in relief and care; countless smiles directed at him at the power he had gained, at the success he had achieved...

_Success, my ass._

He had run from it all, the day after, no goodbye, no words of parting. Why should he have? He was not like them anymore.

_A zombie_, he repeated. _Not a human._

* * *

**A/N:** For those of you who didn't notice, I deleted this a few weeks ago, mainly because I didn't like the way it was being developed. So, since I liked writing oneshots more, I 've decided to just make this a oneshot series. Lovely.

This is, in any case, the same as the original, with maybe a few grammar edits.


	2. Illusion

_I love you, Alviss._

He heard these words, once, long ago, a faint whisper upon his ears. Who had it been that said it? Alas, he had been asleep when it was confessed.

The smallest of breaths stroking his slumber, the slightest of fingertips brushing, caressing the skin of his cheek, as if crying for a love that would never be.

A one-sided feeling he couldn't possibly return. Not to a someone he hadn't seen. Not to an invisible apparition in a past he didn't want to turn back to. Not to a figment of his imagination.

_It could have been real. _

He wanted it to be.

But he couldn't grasp the idea. His mind had played many tricks on him before; enough that he could hardly trust himself anymore. His judgement was faulty and inaccurate. His memories were tainted and twisted, hard to remember clearly, though he was thankful for this fact. But yet, he continued to strain his mind for the smallest details of the incident; a special, significant little vision he wanted to keep, close to the icy emptiness that was now his heart.

He could remember stirring slightly, that once upon a time, his eyes cracking foggily open to a blur of a room. Only tiny slits of blue, his gaze, and he had closed them again, returning to the terrifyingly tempting hands of slumber.

_Who had it been?_

A sheer fluttering of light just outside of his vision, teasing him with the anonymity of the prescence. He would've growled in frustration at this fragment, but he had already accepted that he could never again have what he wanted. What monster could be happy? What monster could be loved?

At this, he knew.

It could've been a dream, after all.

It was all just another tormenting figment of his imagination; a nightmare, mocking his fake wants and needs, laughing coldly at the humane thoughts that destroyed themselves as the spilled over the edge. He could not be satisfied. He could not be undisturbed. He could not be loved.

_Only a dream_, he heard himself whisper. _Only another cruel dream._

* * *

**A/N: **Alright. So, I think I've made it rather obvious that this is Bell being referred to in Alviss' "dream". Let me just mention that I, personally, am not a fan of Bell, let alone the Alviss x Bell pairing. However, I do believe she _is _important in the storyline at one point, if not only for just the beginning.

I'll leave it up to the readers to decide whether the whole thing really was a dream or not. As a matter of fact, for those of you avid Bell haters out there, feel free to imagine someone else in Bell's place, be it your OC or Mary-Sue or whatever floats your boat. Meh.


	3. Embrace

Warmth.

He could barely remember when he had felt such a feeling. Long ago, it must've been.

Safety.

Even before the second War Games had he seemed so chilled to feel, and set into danger. Always in peril.

Touch.

He had not had human contact in many years now. He could only imagine such a thing now, but there it was, so clearly in his blurred, cobwebbed mind. The security of someone holding him in comfort and desperation, and himself, a statue-like entity, returning the gesture. But it had been so, so long ago.

Fire sparking about, screams whistling by with the smoky air, as lives were torn from their roots. It had been another raid by the Chess Pieces. The perfect picture of destruction.

He was panting, he remembered, breaking down incinerating doors with his small, growing boy form, looking for survivors amongst the chaos being ensued. His voice growing hoarse with every "Hello? Anybody here?", sweat sticking to his shirt as he tumbled along from house to house, his lungs choked up with the scent of burnt flesh and ash. He was growing tired and impatient; the likeliness of any struggling, breathing beings still existing was very slim, and decreasing with every second. He had to save the people, he knew, but he doubted that there were any left.

The smoke was stinging his eyes, the frosty blue of his eyes obscured by pained eyelids as he tried to push through the veil of white-hot turmoil, the tiny particles of dust and metallic taste of blood stifling his throat. He coughed, once, twice, thrice---

He stopped, recgonizing the last cough as not his. It was much more softer, and carried a delicate, distinct quality; it was certainly feminine, a trait he was not quite familiar with. Realizing the meaning of this sound, he wheeled around, to come face-to-face with a girl younger than himself, kneeling on the ground, a small, pale hand covering her mouth in attempts to quell her coughs. She had seemed utterly weak and frail to him, the rusty dirt swirling about her surprisingly clean and unwrinkled white skirt, a few strands of hair falling wispily onto her unblemished face, eyelids shut in pain.

_This is the kind of person I'm supposed to protect._

He slowly stepped over to her, cautious as not to alarm her, at the same time mesmerized with her filmy barrier of protection against danger, her weakness, her suffering, her lack of strength as compared to himself. It was strange, he had felt, how he admired such traits, such contrasting, contradicting qualities to his own.

She had stopped coughing, though she kept her hand clasped over her mouth, and opened her eyes, the eyelids lowered slightly, downcast and melancholy, the deep violet an abyss of misty weariness and serene despair.

He shook his head, breaking himself from his trance. He stooped down and reached out, out to the little mysterious girl, placing his rough hand on her satiny-silk covered shoulder. She jumped a little, and fixed him with a surprised, cloudily sad gaze. Breath catching in his throat, his grip tightening slightly in apprehension, he stared back, opposing her with a reflection of determination and will.

Something passed between them, he had known.

He stood again, removing his hand from its position and outstretched in front of her, an invitation to escape. She gazed at him hesitantly (not at his hand, but the owner, he had noticed), before shakily taking his hand in her own, smooth and small in his larger, calloused one. Then they ran.

He was faster than her, stronger and with larger reserves of energy, and she tired within minutes of their movement. Desperately she pushed onward, trying to keep up with him, her coughing increasing with each swift step they took; he was half-dragging her to survival, out of this inflamed, ruined town. Their breaths were uneven and out-of-sync, his eyes stinging from the sparks in the air, filling his gaze with red, blood and flame the same.

She stumbled, dress tearing along the charred, uneven ground, and meeting skin, pale, soft skin, cutting it open in small little peelings and innocent wine drops. She let out a whimper, wincing as the heat stung her, her invisible shield crumbling with the growing pain of her wound. Without a second thought, he immediately whipped her up in a burst of desperation and strength, and ran, ran to the nearing edge of salvation.

_She is the person I'm supposed to protect._

The girl was silent, gripping his shirt with scratched fingers, her head resting on his pounding chest, listening to the beat of his heart, the powerful resounding sound. All the while, he listened to hers, a gentle and assuring thump, a sign of her trust in him, her belief in his powerful will. And they reached the outskirts, absorbed in each others' heartbeats, the bond between a rescuer and a rescuee, a hero and a maiden.

He lowered her onto the grass, watching the scene, violent and red before them. She was shaky, and in their mesmerization, he caught her, and she him, bringing her face to his heaving chest, their arms wrapping around each other as she wept in despair and happiness.

Something had passed between them, two very different people.

He saved her, and she embraced him.

_She is someone I have protected._

* * *

**A/N:** I haven't updated in a while, have I?

The female character in the oneshot is named Alicel. She is set to appear in RotA, whenever I finish whatever I've written of chapter one. Depending on the situation, there might be a part two to this. Who knows..? I guess I would say Alicel is a litle different than other characters, as she's not really a powerful, capable person, especially compared to Alviss. But that's probably why I like her so much (besides the obvious).


	4. Fate

_It was all so red._

Out of all the days, all the locked away memories, it is one that he remembers best.

The day the first comrade dies in his arms. The day he sees only fire and smells nothing but burning flesh.

_Phantom._

A day he can relive clearer than any other.

It starts with running. Running and sprinting through low hanging branches and lots of green leaves that get stuck in his hair. There's laughing, he recalls, as a little boy Alviss quickly ducks under a well-hidden bough and hears a painful-sounding _thump _behind him.

A grin.

The child turns around, his eyes filled with mirth as he stares upon his bulky, fallen companion. "I win this time, Alan!" he announces proudly, and shakes the leaves out his hair.

The bigger man groans, and sits up, eyeing the branch before him with a dark look. "Good job, kid. That really hurt, though." He lifts a hand up, and grimaces as he feels the newly formed bruise on his abdomen. "A lot."

Alviss laughs, pumping a fist in triumph. "See, even a kid can outsmart an adult! Now you can't tell me that I can't hold my own!"

His comrade gives him a crooked grin, and ruffles his hair. "Nah, you were just lucky," he laughs, shaking his head. "You gotta be a man before I let you out against the Chess."

He pouts, giving Alan a pointed look from under blue-black bangs. "I am a man! See?" He wriggles out from under the older man's grip, and puffs out his chest. "I'm brave! I can do it! And look -" He holds his arm out, and bends it at the elbow, a muscle quivering on his upper arm. "I'm strong!"

He blinks as his companion holds his tanned, muscled arm next to his smaller, thinner one. "You got a long ways to go, kid," he says, laughing as he claps a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Besides, you need to get taller before you become a real man!"

His lips form into a scowl, and he pulls out of Alan's hold again. "I'll get taller, just you watch!" he exclaims, blue fire burning in his eyes. "I'll become strong, and I'll protect MAR Heaven!"

_So he said._

It only makes it more ironic when not more than ten minutes after those words, the little boy Alviss and his companion stumble into hell.

It is vivid and burning. On reflex he recoils at the stench of roasting meat - that of humans and pets - and the unbearable sensation of heat hitting his senses; tries not to retch his guts as he staggers back against the trees. Alan runs past him, urgency and fear evident in every movement, and he realizes what he's been doing.

This is no time to be a coward.

Alviss musters his courage, his strength, his determination, setting his jaw and schooling his face into the same calmness he's seen so many times on the faces of his older, experienced companions.

He remembers the familiar faces. His fists clench, his breath steadies. Today he will become their equal - because there are no requirements to be a hero.

His legs move him across the red-orange village, and he dodges stray flames and steps carefully over and around bodies already half-reduced to ash. His eyes, a smearing mess of blue and reflected crimson - blood and flame alike - dart around looking for any signs of life, and movement from hidden enemies. He looks for the broad back and muscled shoulders of Alan, only to feel his heart twist uncomfortably when he doesn't see it.

A thousand what-ifs are flooding his mind. His vision starts to spin.

Alan dead. Everyone dead. No survivors. Him trapped in the inferno. Him dead.

He is just a child, and he feels like he is going insane.

_Thump._

The scenary stops swirling. Alviss turns, and he almost forgets to hide his desperation and delusion when he sees a worn, crawling man from the Cross Guard. A survivor.

The man struggles, his breathing uneven as Alviss helps him sit up with a tight grip that betrays his own fear. A ragged voice speaks to him slowly, "Pha... Phan... tom..."

His insides frost over, and his hold on the man grows even tighter. "Phantom... Phantom is here?"

The survivor struggles to keep his eyes open, and he only murmurs a silent answer before blood comes bubbling out and he coughs - hard.

Alviss bites his lip, trying to keep his emotions level as the man recovers and stills his shaking body. He suddenly feels heavier as he fixes a weak, pained, almost empty expression to the smaller boy's face.

"Al... Alviss..."

He takes a shuddering gasp, and Alviss can tell that he's trying not to relax his muscles for even a second.

"R-run... this... place... Phantom... you can't... defeat him... Alan... will take care... of it... get a... way... while you... c-can..."

He stiffens as his comrade coughs again and again, the bright red a stark contrast to pale skin. He looks for any open wound, anything he can do to help the man, but all he sees are bruises and tattered clothes. Internal bleeding. There is nothing he can do.

The hot tears prick at his eyes and his face distorts into a grimace of despair as the body shudders and goes limp in his arms.

_Dead._

Alviss gets no time to mourn, however, as the next second a harsh crash is heard from his right - he tears his gaze away from the corpse only to find a bulky mass covered in splinters and a collapsed, burning house. He recognizes Alan.

"Hmph, is this all the Cross Guard has to offer, Alan?" The silky, menacing voice sends shivers down his spine.

There is no denying that voice. He can clearly picture the bandaged arm and white hair.

PHANTOM.

His heart painfully _thump thump_s in his chest, his eyes staring emptily at Alan's injured body as he struggles to get up. Time seems to stop as he imagines the twisted grin spreading across a paper white face, and the scent of death emanating from his dead comrade and all the innocent people who've been lost.

_Ba-bump. Ba-bump._

Phantom laughs at the muscled man's feeble attempts - steps on his head and forces it down into dirt mixed with soot and blood.

_Ba-bump-ba-bump._

"Is this the really the best of Cross Guard, _Alan_?"

_Babumpbabump._

Before he knows it, he's gritted his teeth and he's up and throwing a messy clump of hot dirt at the leader of Chess's head. At the moment, Alviss knows nothing but adrenaline-powered rage.

Phantom seems stunned before he swivels his head seamlessly towards the little boy, an insane smirk decorating his face in the split-second it takes. "Well, look who it is."

Alviss doesn't back down. He yells angry words that don't even make sense, biting phrases and pours out all his despair and fear into three words.

"_I hate you_."

His opponent's grin grows only wider. Alan looks on in dread.

"Fufu, you've got quite the nerve." Long, thin fingers flex around Babbo's handle. "Quite impressive, that's good."

For an instant Alviss falters as Phantom starts to move towards him. His legs do not move as his fear and courage conflict with each other. His expression stays intent. The zombie man stands in front of him, piercing him with bright, violet eyes that know everything.

"This is too good to pass up," he says, amusement evident in his voice. Vaguely the boy can hear Alan's voice full of desperation, but understands none of the words.

"I want to make you the same as me."

The little Cross Guard doesn't understand the meaning behind those words, and he only glares on, daring the taller man to make his move.

Alviss remembers the burning inferno surrounding him, the seared flesh and bones, the pain of not being able to protect, the foolish rage and the zombie tattoo.

But he remembers the smearing, triumphant grin the most.

* * *

**A/N:** This is where I should attempt to make excuses about the lack of updates. I won't though - I just fell out of interest in MAR, and hit a writing roadblock. That is all. In any case, this is No. 4, written overall in a span of three days; one day sometime a year ago, and two days this week. Like stated previously, I have not reread MAR in a long time, so forgive me if the characterizations are a bit off; hopefully I managed to do okay on portraying the young Alviss's naivety about "being a hero". I also did not attempt to emulate my old style, sorry about that. Because I hate unfinished stories myself, I have decided that until further notice (read: inspiration) SiBS will be "completed" at No. 5.


	5. Disgust

MAR Heaven was once a beautiful world, he knew.

Once.

Now it was a landscape of disarray, and foreign to him; the trees that had seemed to wave, now hiding behind their branches to whisper words that, if he heard it in the wind, sounded like "monster"; the rocky face of a cliff had smiled at him before, but now frowned upon him, rough and angry; the waves that had struck his feet on sand playfully, now hissed and shrieked...

And yet it didn't _look _any different.

_I no longer belong here. I don't belong anywhere._

MAR Heaven didn't want him anymore. No, it didn't need him. Funny, as he had worked _so _hard to protect this place, to be hated like this.

He really didn't deserve this. A monster didn't deserve such_ hate_.

Now he understood why Phantom had just _broke. _He couldn't take such pain and loathe from a world that wanted him _out_. That orb really had nothing to do with it after all. Diana had nothing to do with it. The zombie tattoo had only escalated the emotions he had possessed, all the agony, despair, and disgust this world had thrown at him, telling him just to _fucking_ die already. And he had thrown it back.

MAR Heaven was really corrupt. It threw aside everything that had done his part, and was no longer needed. It really was selfish.

_I saved its ass, and after wards it wants me to suffer. A brilliant way to use reverse psychology. Too bad it's not working._

He kicked angrily at the ground, successfully uprooting a clump of dirt. If he had not become what he was, would he have been resented so much?

_No...maybe...no, definitely yes. I would've been hated nonetheless._

A sneering voice laughed in his mind, fake mirth resonating in his brain.

_Hatred spares no one._

Throw it back, like Phantom.

_This world has been appreciated for far too long._

MAR Heaven would not get him without his fighting back.

_It's time to change this._

He absolutely _HATED_ MAR Heaven.

It had taken him long enough to realize this, what had held him back? The little, rather meaningless, he thought now, memories of people he had barely known, when they had fought to save this place; did they know, how the world could turn faces so unexpectedly? He had spent so little time with them; how could they have gotten so close. No, how could _he_ have let them get close? He didn't know them. He didn't know them...

_I don't know them._

He felt something wrench inside him painfully, then release, tingles spreading throughout his body. A strange feeling, like something was slowly being lifted from his shoulders.

_I don't know them_, he repeated. _I don't know them. _

Why was this so hard, to remove strangers from his memory? Was he so weak, to hold onto such pathetic images? They were supposed to mean nothing to him, and yet, they were so hard to let go. But he wanted them gone, wasn't that enough?

_I don't know them._

He was disgusted with himself for gripping onto the little fragments of happiness he had had. He hated that he had so much hope still left in him, that maybe, just maybe, he could live again. Be human. But he hadn't deserved it, had he? He hadn't deserved happiness, and to isolate him, he had his humanity taken away. He had only deserved pain, and sorrow. Anger and loathe. Blood lust and malice. Inhuman traits.

_I don't know them. I don't, don't, DON'T know them._

He was a zombie now. He had no need for memories, memories that held no significance in an infinity of time. Such things were absolutely unnecessary. Little insignificant nothings. Weaknesses.

He was not weak. He would not let himself waver in strength; he needed it to fight back. Have no way to hold him back and pin him to the ground. Nothing to chain him from hating, _loathing_, this twisted, corrupted, disgusting world.

_I __**don't **_know them.

* * *

**A/N:** This was originally in the first SiBS, but I can't remember if this chapter in particular was ever published. ... This is technically cheating to finish up the story, but this seemed to fit more at the end than any other part of the story (hence why I did not update it as soon as I found it... like two years ago). Just cleaned up typos, so this is pretty much written in the same style as most of SiBS. The end... until further notice, maybe. As for RotA, I have no idea what or when I will do something with that.


End file.
